Friday Poem

The Common Grace of Alone

A twenty-something boy coughs in his hand
and puts the breath in his pocket. Dirty air—
The air is dirty. I can see him clearly
with the blue light in the car.
I go and go. I say a lot.
I want to say, Lonely isn’t always
a problem to fix.

by Shannon Quay
from Anastmohoo, Vol. 4